


BASOMANIA

by piketrickfoot



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: 'kisses and blood and snow ridding the world of me', Angst, Fifth Year, Fifth Year Baz, M/M, Pining!Baz, babyboy pitch is gay and suffers but it's ok cause we all know how it ends!!!, etc - Freeform, good ol' fifth yr pining/confusion, this fic however does not have a happy ending just a warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 08:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9063412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piketrickfoot/pseuds/piketrickfoot
Summary: He glares at me, like he’s daring me to say something, and I meet his eyes but I do not open my mouth. I’ve never wanted to bite another person; I’ve never, ever wanted to kill someone. But now— now he’s standing there, staring me down like a challenge, throat marked up by Agatha Wellbelove of all people, and I don’t quite trust myself not to kiss him.Kiss him? Kill him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hi i wrote this cause i just finished the book and i'm sort of obsessed with the idea of fifth year pining sufferbaz. this is not a happy fic. 
> 
> also, i think i may have accidentally made mordelia way older than she is in the books? oops

BAZ 

The summer before my fifth year was uneventful. I played football with Mordelia and some Normals from town, I studied ahead in Greek and Latin, I was present and personable at my father's events and functions, and I definitely did not think about Simon fucking Snow. 

I'm sitting in the car now, with Father and Mordelia. He's saying something to her— probably something about getting her grades up, following in my footsteps. She's not listening, and neither am I. If I crane my neck out the window I can see Watford's ornate iron gates, and Mor perks up immediately when she notices it, too. 

"Basilton?" Father says, opening his door with a single gloved hand and stepping elegantly out, "Walk your sister to her room, won't you?" 

I get out of the car and adjust my boater, leaning boredly against the door and watching Mordelia wiggle and clamber her way across the seat and out. Her boater is badly askew, and Father adjusts it hastily before striding off to the main office. I stare after him for a few seconds. Then I grab my bag and start to make my way to the second-year girls' dormitories, leaving Mor to carry her own bags. 

Dropping Mor off is a time-suck. Her roommate is just moving in when we get there, too, a wide-eyed girl with medium-brown skin and two puffs of hair bouncing merrily atop her head. And of course Mor talks about me ("all bad things," she assures me) and of course Jenna— Jenna?— wants to meet me, and then Jenna's fucking parents want to meet me, and it's a whole thing. 

On the walk to Mummers House, after extricating myself from the Mallows, I wonder idly if that's why Father sent me to drop Mor off. Which is why, when I spell open the door to my room, I do it absentmindedly. And so, I am completely unprepared to see Simon Snow, curled up in his bed, windows open and the afternoon sunlight illuminating his cheekbones and spun-gold curls. 

What?

Then I think he's crying again, like in second year, and I'm coming up with insults to throw at him when he stirs. Oh. 

He was asleep. Okay. 

He blinks at me, and, really, nobody should have eyelashes that long. It's unfair. Then he's awake and staggering to his feet and I blink that thought away— file it away in the corner of my brain labeled EMOTIONS WE DON'T THINK ABOUT— and he's saying something and I realize I've dropped my bags. Fuck. 

Snow is still talking, and I strain to hear as I lean down and grab my suitcase with both hands.

"-and why the hell were you just standing there watching me sleep? What the fuck are you planning, Baz!" 

Something inside me recoils, but not at him; recoils at myself, because I know he's right. But I don't let myself dwell on that— instead, I push my bag under my head and plaster a glare on my face that I don't really feel. 

"Piss off, Snow." 

It's weak and I know it, and one look tells me he knows it too, but he doesn't say anything else, just scoffs and pushes past me out of the room. I sit back against my bed. 

What was that? 

\- 

When he comes back that night after the welcome-back feast, I'm sitting on my bed, propped up against the pillows, familiarizing myself with this year's Ancient Greek textbook. He pushes through the door and I look up, though I don't mean to. He and the Wellbelove girl have obviously been up to something. His hair is even more disheveled than usual, curls falling down into his eyes and sticking out behind his ears. His lips are pink and slightly swollen, and there's soft pink lipstick on his chin. And on his neck, just below his jawline, there's a thumbprint-sized (mouth-sized) bruise. Something in my gut twists at the sight of him. 

He glares at me, like he’s daring me to say something, and I meet his eyes but I do not open my mouth. I’ve never wanted to bite another person; I’ve never, ever wanted to kill someone. But now— now he’s standing there, staring me down like a challenge, throat marked up by Agatha Wellbelove of all people, and I don’t quite trust myself not to kiss him. 

Kiss him? Kill him.

And then he goes into the bathroom and I look back down at my book, and I hate myself just a bit more than usual. 

-

And it doesn’t stop. Sometimes I see him with Wellbelove, talking or laughing or kissing, and I hate him so fucking much I have to go to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face and practice breathing exercises. And I don’t stop wanting to kill him. (Kiss him?) 

That’s not even the worst of it. He’s taken to following me everywhere and it’s infuriating. Sometimes I can’t eat for days because he’s followed me down to the catacombs and he’s screaming in my face and I think he knows everything.  
Killing monsters is what Simon Snow does. It’s what he’s good at. Crowley, if he knew… 

Sometimes, when it’s late and I can’t sleep, I think about that. What he would do if he knew. If he told the Mage, it would be simple— I’d be turned in to the council and executed by fire. As it should be. 

But I can’t help but hope he hates me enough (cares enough) to finish me off himself. I picture it often: my family behind me, the Mage and the students of Watford behind him. Bunce and Wellbelove at his side, Niall and Dev at mine. A proper duel. 

I’d cast Fall back! and everyone else would melt away. And it would just be us. And he wouldn’t go off; just summon his sword and plunge it through my chest. 

I think that’s how I’d want to go. In his arms, and then left for dead. 

As it should be. 

 

 

Nights are the worst. He leaves the windows wide open, for some fucking reason, and the moonlight spills into his hair and over his face like it was born to be there. I don’t mean to watch him, at first, but it’s the only time my head is clear enough to really think. 

Mordelia reads a lot of Normal books. She says when the star-crossed characters are confused, they make lists of what they know. So here’s what I know:

1\. My name is Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.  
2\. The dryads call me bloodeater because that’s what I am. A vampire. A monster. An un-person.  
3\. My roommate is Simon Snow, the Mage’s Heir, savior of the World.  
4\. My roommate is an ass and a self-righteous tosser.  
5\. My roommate thinks I’m a monster (he’s right), and he’s following me everywhere I go to prove it.  
6\. Some day, my roommate and I will have to try to kill each other— for real.  
7\. Some day, my roommate will kill me. He’ll stab me through the heart with his mighty sword, and all that is good in the world will cheer.  
8\. He is so, so alive. Sometimes I want to drain it from his body with my teeth.  
9\. Mostly, I just want to kiss him until I can’t breathe. 

-

Over the holidays, Father asks me about carrying on the Pitch family name, and all I can think about is Simon. 

God, there is something wrong with me. 

-

A fact about Simon Snow: he sleeps shirtless. Mostly, if we’re in the room and it’s after 10, he’s shirtless. It’s distressing how well I know the pattern of his moles. Evenings often go like this: he takes off his shirt. I pretend not to be looking at the smooth curve of his spine. I think about kissing lines between his moles. He shoots me an unreadable look. I want him to summon his sword right here in our room and stab me through the heart, and damn the Anathema.  
Maybe it doesn’t apply to unpersons. 

-

Did you know that vampires are flammable? I always thought that’s how I’d die— fire or Snow or both. 

-

The classroom where Ancient Greek is held is at the very top of a tower with quite a large number of stairs. I have always had Ancient Greek with Snow, and, of course, when the professor assigned pairs in the beginning of the year, he assigned them by roommate. 

“Surely I cannot aspire to choose more wisely than the crucible!” he had said with a chuckle. 

So, for an hour every morning, there we sat— Snow glaring at me suspiciously, me trying desperately not to reach across the desk and snog him. And, because Snow is not good at Ancient Greek, the professor keeps us after class one day to have a chat. He says I’m not doing my part as Snow’s partner-- why else would I have the best grades in class, and he the worst? 

When he lets us go, Snow is clearly upset. And because I’m supremely clever, I decide to pick a fight with him. At the top of the stairs. 

“If you would just pull your weight…” I stage-mutter. I want him to hear me. I want to be able to hurt him like he hurts me. (Baz, that’s not fair.) (Shut up, Baz.)  
He whips his head towards me quicker than I ever thought possible, but he doesn’t look hurt, just angry. Angrier than I’ve ever seen him. His eyes are blue, bluer than anything and electric with hatred. Good. I know this; this is familiar. This is easy. 

“Do you ever fucking stop?!” he shouts, pivoting on his heel. I step back, involuntarily, and then curse. “Crowley, Baz, so you got scolded. So fucking what. Not everything is a reason to push and push and push at me! I don’t know what your fucking problem is but leave. Me. Out. Of. It.” I stumble backwards, and Snow keeps advancing on me, voice nothing but a hollow hiss. “I wanted to be friends with you. I was excited to meet you. But you just… you just kept… you…”  
He's trailed off. Tears are stinging at my eyes and he's so close now I briefly contemplate crashing my lips into his, winding my fingers into the bronzy glow of his curls, pressing my mouth to his jawline. 

That’s when I realize he’s waiting for a response. Pull it together, Baz. 

I brush him out of my way, sneering. “Friends? Grow up, Snow.” 

And then he goes ballistic. For a second he’s hazy-green and I think he’s going to go off. (Part of me hopes he will.) But he doesn’t; he just shoves me up against the cold stone wall, hands on my elbows. My head hits the stone. I bite my lip. 

For a second he looks sheepish, like he’s regretting getting that close to me, like he’s afraid. Like I’m some uncontrollable monster. Like I deserve to be dragged out onto the lawn and stoned. Something dark and heavy roils in my gut and maybe that’s why I do what I do next. 

I push him. As hard as I fucking can. 

And then before I can blink, Simon Snow is lying at the bottom of the stairs. My heart twists. 

I turn on my heel, and I run.


End file.
